I love to read books. Mostly good books but I tend excuse a lot in mediocre books as well just because the process of taking in their mediocrity is so enjoyable to me.
When I’m in the midst of a book I can release all the stress of my actual life. This is a great tool to have in my personal tool belt. Especially when my actual life includes things like waiting for a state run agency to decide when exactly I can fly across the country to collect my child.
It’s also ridiculously addicting.
Some people (the Mr) can enjoy their reading chapter by chapter. Putting off their stress for thirty minutes to an hour at a time. I am not so fortunate. Once I taste the bliss of a book I can’t stop until there’s nothing left. When I am forced to take a hiatus in my devouring of pages the idea of reunion with my bound paper love never leaves my mind. If I’m busy enough with other things, it will slide to the back of my consciousness but it’s still there. Always there.
That is why I didn’t make it to bed until 3:00 in the a.m . after this week’s Wednesday was accomplished. Still today I am recovering from the sleep I lost to the monkey on my back. Even as I’ve drug myself through my past days cursing my inability to stand up to my literature abusing brain and go to bed already I’ve had to fight the desire to go to the book shelf and pluck myself another hit.